


City of Delusion

by MissWah



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Domestic Fluff, Domestic Johnlock, Established Relationship, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Romance, Smoking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-14
Updated: 2018-09-30
Packaged: 2019-05-07 03:29:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,950
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14662380
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissWah/pseuds/MissWah
Summary: John convinces his flatmate to stop smoking which causes Sherlock to reveal parts of his past.





	1. Chapter 1

Sherlock was known to sneak in the occasional cigarette between cases, especially if there was a large gap between them. He thought John didn’t notice, but John Watson had his ways. The dwindling supply in the packet he had hidden in the skull, the fact that the packet had clearly been replaced with a new one and the faint, yet lingering smell on Sherlock’s clothes were the usual giveaways.

For the last two weeks the packet hadn’t once been inside the skull, John lost count of how much Sherlock had smoked and the smell was no longer faint but a constant addition to Sherlock’s wardrobe.

John had only just walked in the room but already he was aware of the smell of cigarettes coming from the detective. “Sherlock, you need to slow down.”

The detective was sitting in his chair with his hands steepled beneath his chin in his usual thinking pose. He was looking straight ahead, clearly lost in his own thoughts. _Must be in his mind palace,_ John thought to himself. It was nigh on impossible to get Sherlock’s attention when he was lost inside his mind, so John simply waited until Sherlock realised he had been speaking.

He went about his business; he had a shower, got dressed, made a cup of tea and caught up on some reading. Meanwhile Sherlock was still sitting, straight backed and internally focussed.

John didn’t wait to ask Sherlock before he ordered food for them both. When it arrived he plated it up and took it into the living room, placing the plates on the table by the sofa.

He walked over to Sherlock and straddled his hips, sitting on the detective’s lap, which finally seemed to get his attention.

“John?”

He loved this moment. When Sherlock came back to himself and the very first thought that crossed his mind was John. His face would take on such a vulnerable look that John couldn’t help but stare. He kissed the detective lightly on the lips, then drew back to look at his face again. “You’ve been in there all afternoon,” he said as he tapped Sherlock’s temple lightly. “Are you back with me now?”

“I- I’m sorry, John. I just need to finish this case. It’s been going on for too long.”

“I know.” Two weeks was definitely too long when Sherlock was on the case, and it was starting to take its toll on him. He was clearly exhausted, no matter how much he denied it. Between reviewing the evidence, conducting experiments and searching his mind palace Sherlock barely had time for anything else.

“Come on, time to eat.”

“I’m not hungry,” was Sherlock’s automatic reply.

John narrowed his eyes at him. “Don’t even try that on me. I know you’re hungry and I don’t care about the case right now, you are going to have dinner with me.” Sherlock looked ready to keep arguing but John was having none of it. “I’ve missed you, Sherlock, alright? I’ve missed spending time with you and I understand you need to finish that case but you need a break.”

“I can take a break when the case is finished,” Sherlock argued.

“You can take a break now,” John insisted. He got up and pulled Sherlock with him, holding him by the hands. He turned around, wrapped Sherlock’s arms around his waist and the detective leaned his chin on the crook of John’s neck. Interlaced, they walked towards the sofa where they both collapsed after a misstep.

They broke into laughter, Sherlock on top of John on the sofa in what should have been an uncomfortable position. John was just incredibly relieved to hear Sherlock laughing. It had been too long since he’d heard that sound.

After the laughter subsided down to mere chuckles Sherlock stood in front of John who was now on his knees on the sofa. They looked at each other for a moment before John leaned forward and rested his head on Sherlock’s chest. The smell of cigarette smoke assaulted his nostrils once again and he frowned. “You _really_ need to slow down.”

Sherlock started running his hands through John’s short hair. “What are you talking about?”

John lifted his head and gave him a stern look. “You know what.”

Sherlock resisted the urge to roll his eyes or snap. He understood that John was just worried about him, but the smoking was helping him cope with all the stress from the damned case. “I’ll stop after the case is finished.”

“Really?” John scoffed, disbelief clear in his voice.

“If you want me to, yes,” Sherlock confirmed. “I promise I’ll try.”

John tugged at Sherlock’s shirt, lightly pulling the detective down to meet his stretch. “Thank you,” he said, before placing a chaste kiss on Sherlock’s lips. “Shall we eat?” John asked.

Sherlock nodded, and they both sat down next to each other, eating in a comfortable silence. It felt nice to finally spend some time with Sherlock, even if he wasn’t saying anything. Too many times recently John had sat on this sofa by himself, eating alone while Sherlock was with Lestrade or at Bart’s on an experiment.

Sherlock had missed spending time with John as well. And now that he really thought about it he had missed food too. He couldn’t even remember the last time he had eaten a proper meal- something he was sure John was keeping track of.

“How close are you to solving the case then?” John asked. He had started the case with Sherlock, but as the days went on he’d had to take a step back so that he could actually go to work so he wasn’t as up to date as he would have liked to be.

Sherlock considered the answer, and two mouthfuls later finally answered. “Hopefully it’ll be finished by tomorrow, if Lestrade did what I told him to.”

“He’s been working hard as well, Sherlock. He wants this to be over as much as we do.”

“I can guarantee you that he does not want this to be over as much as I do.” If there was one thing in this world- other than John Watson- that he loved it was working peculiar cases, but this particular case had gone from peculiar to downright frustrating, and he’d had enough. He just wanted it to be over. “I just want to spend the next three days in bed with you.”

Sherlock put his empty plate down on the table and dropped his head onto John’s shoulder. The doctor turned his head around and placed a soft kiss on Sherlock’s head while he finished his own food. “That sounds wonderful”

When John finished eating his dinner he picked up the plates and took them into the kitchen, not bothering to wash them up just yet. By the time he came back Sherlock was sprawled out on the sofa asleep. Not wanting to disturb him, but knowing from personal experience that the sofa wasn’t the most comfortable place to sleep in, he went to the bedroom and grabbed a pillow and a blanket.

He gently lifted Sherlock’s head and placed the pillow underneath it. He then spread the blanket over the detective’s sleeping form and tucked it under his chin.

He kept reminding himself that, if all went well, the case would be over by tomorrow. He’d gotten so used to having Sherlock by his side and feeling the warmth of another body next to his that he now hated sleeping alone.

Tonight, however, he would have to endure the emptiness of the bed in favour of knowing that Sherlock was at least getting some rest. He had a feeling that if he had woken him up to get him to bed he would just stay up the rest of the night.

John gave Sherlock a quick kiss before going back to their room for some rest as well.

 

Sherlock woke up the next morning feeling very confused. The last thing he remembered was dinner with John and now here he was, lying on the sofa with a pillow under his head a blanket over him. His brain, although still working at half speed, quickly came to the conclusion that he must have fallen asleep and John was responsible for the appearance of said pillow and blanket

He got up, turning on the kettle on his way their room, and went to check on John. He opened the door slowly, trying to avoid any creaking sounds that might wake John up, and peaked in. The doctor was laying on the bed with the blankets drawn up to his chest and his right arm stretched across Sherlock’s side of the bed.

He felt an overwhelming urge to climb into bed with John at that very moment, feeling guilty for having spent another night away from him. But he pushed the urge down and concentrated on the fact that he had to finish the case.

He closed the door again and went to the kitchen to make himself a cup of tea. He noticed that they were almost out of milk, as usual, and made a mental note to buy some on his way back. After getting dressed he downed his tea and left a brief note so that John wouldn’t wonder where he’d gone. One too many kidnappings had left them both wary of unannounced absences from the flat.

_Gone to Scotland Yard, should be back before lunch. SH_

After grabbing his coat and scarf he made his way downstairs and quickly managed to find a cab. He was on his way to Scotland Yard when he received a text from Lestrade.

**Suspect just confessed. The case is finally closed.**

Sherlock huffed in annoyance. If he had known this a few minutes ago he would have crawled into bed with John and slept for the rest of the day. Instead he was sitting in a cab wadding through London traffic and feeling exceedingly irritated.

Going back now would be pointless though, seeing as he was closer to Scotland Yard than to Baker Street. He arrived, feeling more than a little annoyed at Lestrade, and made his way to his office.

“I realise your brain can only hold so much information at any given time, but could you not possibly have informed me about this sooner?” he snapped as soon as he walked in.

Lestrade, sitting at his desk reading a case file, was more than a little surprised when he looked up to see Sherlock standing there, absolutely fuming. Sherlock was, of course, always generally annoyed at people’s inability to use their brains, as he so kindly put it, but this was more than that.

“Informed you about what exactly?”

“The suspect!” Sherlock snapped.

“I told you as soon as I could, Sherlock. Why are you here?”

Sherlock closed his eyes and took a deep breath in an attempt to calm himself down. He’d been wound up for about a week now and it was all crashing down around him, and while he knew Lestrade wasn’t to blame, it was as though he couldn’t control the words coming out of his mouth. “Because I was already on my way here when your appallingly timed text arrived. Because I wanted to get here as soon as possible and end up doing your job for you so that I could get back to my life!”

He was visibly shaking by the time he’d finished shouting. His lips were set in a thin line and he seemed to be scrambling for something in his pocket. Lestrade was about to ask him what was wrong- having never seen Sherlock like this before- when the detective stalked out of his office without a backward glance.

Worried, Lestrade followed him as quickly as he could. Sherlock’s exceptionally long stride left him far behind and he only managed to catch up to him once they were outside. Sherlock was standing by the curb, tension clear in the set of his shoulders and the tapping of his leg, smoking a cigarette.

Lestrade approached slowly, not wanting to startle him, but surely Sherlock must have realised he would come after him.

Sherlock turned towards the detective inspector. “What is it now, Lestrade?” he asked, irritation clear in his tone.

“I could ask you the same thing,” Lestrade replied. “I’ve seen you work on cases for longer than this without getting this worked up. What’s the matter?”

Sherlock seemed oddly calm when he replied. “All these years we’ve known each other; do you know how many times you’ve asked me that?”

“Three,” Lestrade replied without hesitation. “When you showed up at my house at 3am high as a kite, when John wouldn’t talk to you after you faked your suicide and came to see me, and now.”

Sherlock chuckled. “Remarkable memory.”

“You don’t often give me enough reason to ask.” When Sherlock didn’t say anything he decided to ask again. “So, what is it?”

“It’s nothing,” he dismissed casually, “I’m just tired.”

But Lestrade could see that he was holding back, as always, but he was too worried to let this go. “Sherlock, talk to me.”

It wasn’t that he didn’t trust Lestrade, because he did- he trusted the man with his life. But now that he thought about why he had snapped at him and why he had been so stressed lately he realised that now that the case was over he could finally relax. “I just miss John,” he finally admitted.

 “What do you mean? Has something happened between you two?” From the very beginning Lestrade could tell how much John meant to Sherlock and he’d been worried that John would break his heart. Even though Sherlock was a fully-grown man, mostly capable of looking after himself, Lestrade still felt oddly protective over him.

Sherlock shook his head. “It’s not like that, we’re fine,” he clarified. “But every time there’s a case I go running. I leave John to chase behind me and it shouldn’t be that way. He should be my first priority- he _is_ my first priority; I just need to stop letting things get in the way.”

Lestrade understood exactly what Sherlock meant. He’d been in a similar situation himself while his marriage was still alive. Working long hours and always bringing the work home wasn’t good for a relationship. Lestrade had tried to keep things going for a while and spend as much time at home as he could but it was difficult. And in the end it had just been too much for both of them. He didn’t want the same thing to happen to Sherlock and John.

“Go home, Sherlock.” He put his hand on the detective’s shoulder. “The case is solved, there’s nothing for you to do here and John is waiting for you. Go show him he’s your first priority.”

Sherlock stubbed out the cigarette on the pavement and nodded to Lestrade before signalling down a cab and returning to Baker Street.

His visit to Scotland Yard hadn’t taken long but when he returned John was already awake. As soon as he walked in the flat he could hear the shower running. He took off his shoes, coat and scarf, leaving them scattered in the living room, and walked into the bathroom.

“Sherlock, is that you?” John called out.

He quickly disposed of the rest of his clothes and got in the shower behind John. “Were you expecting someone else?” He wrapped his arms tightly around John’s waist, bringing them both close together. He heard John’s breath hitch slightly as they made contact and brought his hand down over Sherlock’s.

“Definitely not,” he replied. He turned his head around slightly to meet Sherlock’s lips in a short, wet kiss. “How did it go with Lestrade?”

“The case is closed, I’m all yours,” Sherlock whispered just behind his ear. He felt a shiver running up John’s spine in anticipation.

The doctor turned around and cupped Sherlock’s face in his hands. “Finally!”


	2. Chapter 2

John lay panting atop Sherlock for a few minutes before he finally managed to get his muscles to work long enough for him to slide down to his side of the bed. It wasn’t long though until Sherlock rolled over on top of him.

“What are you doing?” John asked between heaving breaths.

Sherlock mumbled something that John couldn’t make out, seeing as Sherlock’s head was buried in the back of Joh’s neck.

“What?”

Sherlock lifted his head up, “I love you,” and then he put it back down again.

John couldn’t help the smile that spread across his face. “I love you too, now get off me.”

He pushed Sherlock off, got up from the bed and put on his pants before turning the kettle on in the kitchen. While he waited, he noticed Sherlock’s clothes scattered everywhere. Sighing, he picked them up and folded them. When he got to the jacket he noticed a small bulge in one of the pockets. He put his hand in and pulled out a nearly empty packet of cigarettes. He picked one out and binned the rest.

After making the tea he walked back into their room where Sherlock was now spread right in the middle of the bed. He set the tea down on the bedside table and crawled over Sherlock’s body.

“Last one,” John said as he showed Sherlock the cigarette, “then it’s over, okay?”

Sherlock nodded and accepted the cigarette. “Did you bring my lighter?”

“No. And you’re not smoking in here. You’ll stink up the place and I intend to stay here with you for a very long time.”

Giving John one last kiss Sherlock put on his dressing gown and went into the living room. He opened the window and lit up the cigarette on the way to his chair. He remembered another time when he was allowed one last indulgence before kicking the habit.

_“Mycroft, please!”, he begged his brother. “Just one last time, please!”_

_“I can’t, Sherlock. You know that.” Mycroft could feel tears stinging in the back of his eyes. He hated seeing Sherlock like this- desperate, pleading, dependent. He needed to end this once and for all; the drugs were destroying his brother’s life, and most importantly, his mind._

_“Just one last time, Mycroft. I promise I’ll go to the clinic afterwards but please, just one last time.” He was starting to panic now. He knew he had to get clean- he wanted to get clean- but he just needed to know what it felt like again._

_“Sherlock, no!” He tried to sound firm, but he could feel his resolve crumbling as Sherlock collapsed on the bed and started crying. He walked over to his brother and put a hand on his heaving shoulder. He had never been the best at consoling people, but he knew he had to at least try. “Everything will be better after this, believe me.”_

_“Please,” Sherlock managed to get out between sobs, “please, brother.”_

_“I can’t, Sherlock, I-” his voice broke and a single tear ran down his face._

_A particularly violent sob left Sherlock’s lips and Mycroft felt himself giving in. “Fine.” He shook his head, disappointed in both their weak wills. “But I won’t watch,” he said, before leaving the room._

“Sherlock?” The detective snapped his head up to meet John’s concerned look. “Are you alright?”

“Of course, I’m fine,” he dismissed quickly. He stubbed the cigarette out on a dirty plate.

“Are you sure? You don’t look fine.”

John had come looking for Sherlock after twenty minutes had passed, and the detective still hadn’t returned. He walked in to find Sherlock sitting in his chair with a hazy look in his eyes and the cigarette almost burning his fingers.

Sherlock smiled at John, hoping to be able to dismiss his concern, but he knew that John didn’t believe him. “It’s nothing to worry about.”

John gave him a sad look before sitting on his lap and leaning his head on Sherlock’s shoulder. “You were miles away. What were you thinking about?”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” he admitted, hoping that John would drop the subject. It wasn’t anything that John didn’t already know about but if Sherlock admitted that it was upsetting him he worried that John would want to discuss it, and he really didn’t want to bring up all those memories again.

“Okay, that’s fine. But I’m here if you want to talk, you know that.”

Sherlock stroked the side of John’s face lightly and saw him closing his eyes against the sensation. “I know. Thank you.”

He didn’t know how he’d gotten so lucky. Having John in his life was the best thing that had happened to him in a long time, and he was so grateful. When they had first become a couple he was a nervous wreck, always worried that he would upset John or not meet his expectations until John sat him down and very plainly told him that he wasn’t expecting Sherlock to change for him.

But there had been subtle changes over the months they had been together. Sherlock started to slowly reveal more of himself than he ever thought he would. Little things at first, that had slowly evolved into secrets that Sherlock never thought he would tell anyone. There wasn’t much about Sherlock that John didn’t know.

“You’re thinking too much,” John noted after seeing the far-away look in Sherlock’s eyes again. He was starting to worry because there were no cases or experiments to think about, and he wondered what could possibly be consuming Sherlock right now. “What do you say we go back to bed?”

“You go, I’ll join you in a minute,” Sherlock said with a smile. But John noticed the smile didn’t reach his eyes, something that only happened when Sherlock was pretending.

“Okay, you’re really worrying me now. What’s going on in that big brain of yours?”

Sherlock leaned forward and started kissing John’s neck, lightly at first and right at the pulse point where he knew John was most sensitive. It worked for a few seconds, he even managed to get a quiet moan out of John before his brain caught up to what Sherlock was trying to do.

“No, no, stop-” he gasped as Sherlock bit his neck and then licked the same spot, “you’re not going to distract me like this” he half-heartedly tried to push Sherlock away but gave up in the end, and became pliant under Sherlock’s ministrations.

The kisses had now moved to John’s exposed chest and Sherlock found that this was a very effective distraction for all the thoughts he wanted to ignore. _Thank you, John._

He moved back up to capture John’s lips in one deep, long kiss. John responded immediately, bringing his hands to the back of Sherlock’s neck, effectively pressing the two of them closer.

They both moaned in unison, and the kiss became more desperate. Suddenly Sherlock grabbed John, wrapped his legs around his waist and got up from the chair.

John held on for dear life, wrapping his arms around Sherlock’s neck. “What the hell are you doing?”

“I believe the question is, ‘what are we doing’.”

“What are we doing?”

By then they had reached the bedroom and Sherlock dropped John down on the bed and climbed over him. “Round two.”

 

They had every intention of spending the rest of the day in bed when they realised how empty their fridge was, and how hungry they were- even Sherlock. So they dragged themselves out of bed and got dressed.

“You’re seriously coming with me to do the shopping?” John asked.

“I said I would, didn’t I?” Sherlock replied, growing slightly irritated with John’s disbelief. It was true that he’d never shown any interest before, aside from the supplies he asked John to bring for his experiments, but there was a first time for everything. “Besides, I forgot the milk.”

“You always forget the milk,” John noted with amusement.

Sherlock scowled at him before leaving the bedroom. John followed to find Sherlock with his arms crossed, sulking on the sofa. “Come on, Sherlock, you know I was only joking.”

“If my attempt to assist you is amusing, then by all means I’ll leave you to it.”

John walked over to the sulking detective and uncrossed his arms. “Get up, we’re going for a walk.”

“I thought we were going shopping.”

“We are,” John replied as he pulled Sherlock off the sofa, “if you stop sulking, that is. And I just thought it would be nice if we walked there. We spend enough money on cabs as it is, and you need some fresh air.”

John knew that Sherlock’s irritability was likely to be one of the first symptoms of withdrawal. Last time Sherlock had harpooned a dead pig, scared off half of London’s cab drivers and deduced Mrs Hudson to tears, and he’d only had one cigarette then.

With Sherlock’s addictive personality it was extremely easy for him to fall back into old habits, and John was determined to not let that happen.

Sherlock was jittery when they got to the supermarket. The fresh air had been good for him but the supermarket was too crowded and noisy, and on the few occasions he actually came here it was aggravated him.

So they progressed through each aisle quickly, John throwing things into the trolley that Sherlock was pushing. The detective had been distracted enough on his phone not to notice where they were until they finally arrived.

“What are we doing at the pharmacy?”

“You’re out of nicotine patches.”

John had barely finished his sentence and Sherlock had already turned the trolley around. “Don’t need them, let’s go.”

John jogged to catch up with Sherlock, who was clearly heading for the self-checkout, even knowing how John felt about those. “What do you mean you don’t need them?”

“Cold turkey, we agreed, remember?”

They stopped once they reached the checkout machine and Sherlock started scanning items.

“That was last time and look where it got you. You were pacing around the flat with a harpoon like a maniac.”

Sherlock dropped the milk he was holding back onto the trolley, closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He knew it wasn’t John’s fault that he was so anxious, but he really just wanted to get out of here as quickly as possible and have this conversation later. Or maybe never.

“I know, John, I was there. It’s easier this way, there’s less temptation.” He rarely liked admitting to any weakness, but in cases like these it was best to be honest.

“You’re just making things more difficult for yourself, Sherlock,” John argued.

“I’ve been through this enough times to know my own damn body, John. I’m doing it this way whether you want me to or not, so just leave me alone.”

He stormed out of the supermarket, leaving John with a trolley full of shopping to finish.

When he finally did, successfully avoiding yet another row with the machine, he walked outside and started looking for Sherlock, hoping he hadn’t gone home on his own.

He finally spotted him pacing just around the corner from the supermarket. The detective swiftly turned around and started walking towards John. He grabbed two of the bags out of John’s hands and started walking towards somewhere where they’d be able to get a cab.

Neither of them said a word. John didn’t want to rile Sherlock up anymore and Sherlock felt guilty enough as it was that he kept snapping at John.

When they finally reached Baker Street John grabbed all the bags and left Sherlock to pay the fare.

It was a few minutes after John had finished putting away all the shopping that Sherlock finally walked into the flat. His face was a bit flushed and his hair messy. John deduced that the detective had been pacing outside where it was cold and windy, before finally coming in to the flat.

After putting on his dressing gown he shuffled into the kitchen where John had started making dinner. “I didn’t know it was going to be this difficult, but I shouldn’t be taking it out on you.” He cleared his throat nervously. “I’m sorry.”

 John turned to look at him.  “I know that, but I’m here to help you, not to be your verbal punching bag.”

Sherlock looked at John, guilt clear in his eyes. “Are you mad at me?”

“Of course not, Sherlock,” John reassured him. “I’m worried about you.”

“There’s nothing to worry about, John.”

He noticed how Sherlock looked away when he said that. He walked up to the detective and lifted his chin up so Sherlock would look at him. “Look me in the eye and tell me there’s nothing to worry about.” Sherlock remained quiet. “You can’t, because you won’t lie to me, and I’m glad for that. But this has been harder than you imagined and it’s only just started. Something’s going on in that big brain of yours, and I would like to know what it is.”

“I-” Sherlock hesitated. He wanted to talk to John. He wanted to tell him how anxious and nervous the whole thing was making him because it was bringing back so many memories. His brain couldn’t discern the fact that he wasn’t detoxing from cocaine because it all felt so similar. He wanted to tell John all of this, but he couldn’t bring himself to. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

John sighed. He’d watched the turmoil cross Sherlock’s face and had hoped to actually get something out of the detective. “We don’t have to talk about it now,” he watched as Sherlock visibly relaxed, “but we have to talk about it eventually.”

“I know. And we will, I promise. Just not right now.”

John held his hand out to Sherlock, and when the detective took it he squeezed it tightly. “Help me make dinner?”

“Fine,” Sherlock reluctantly agreed. He figured it would be a good way to keep his mind busy while he worked up the nerve to talk to John.

They worked in the kitchen, Sherlock, for once, following John’s instructions, and they managed to make a nice meal for themselves. After dinner they curled up on the sofa watching telly. John could tell that Sherlock was tense. “Sherlock, why are you so nervous?”

“I’m not,” Sherlock replied, sounding affronted.

“Yes, you are. Why are you so reluctant to talk to me?”

“I just,” he began hesitantly. He was visibly struggling with the words and John had to resist the urge to just pull him into his arms. It was hard watching Sherlock Holmes not knowing what to say. “I just don’t want you to think that I’m…”

The detective cut himself off, and John waited a few long seconds to see if he would finish the sentence. When he didn’t John held his hand tightly and squeezed, hoping the gesture would prompt Sherlock to finish.

Sherlock sighed heavily, and when he spoke his voice was near a whisper. “I don’t want you to think I’m weak.”

John couldn’t help himself this time. He pulled Sherlock into his arms, the detective’s head cradled in the crook of his shoulder, and he help him tightly. “You are the strongest man I’ve ever met, Sherlock Holmes. Don’t you ever doubt that.”

Sherlock didn’t reply, but instead of laying stiffly in John’s embrace he wrapped him arms around John’s waist and let himself be comforted.


	3. Chapter 3

“Sherlock?”  
  
“Yes, John?”  
  
“You know there’s nothing wrong with being tempted, don’t you?”  
  
Sherlock, who had been lying quietly in John’s arms in their bed, shifted uncomfortably.  
  
“It’s perfectly normal to crave something you were once addicted to.”  
  
Sherlock pondered John’s words. He had been clean for years now, an achievement he was immensely proud of, but he always felt ashamed whenever he even considered going back to the drugs. He felt like his mind was betraying him, trying to tempt him with memories of what it felt like to be high.  
  
Truth be told, whenever the drugs crossed his mind, he always felt afraid that he would relapse. Before John had come along he had no one. Every time temptation reared its ugly head Sherlock thought of John, and how disappointed and worried he would be if Sherlock relapsed again. He knew it wasn’t healthy to hang his sobriety on John’s feelings, but until he could forgive himself for these thoughts, he wouldn’t be able to maintain his sobriety for anyone else.  
  
“I’m afraid, John,” Sherlock murmured quietly.  
  
“Afraid of what?”  
  
“That if I start again, I won’t be able to stop. It’s been so long since I did those things, but I can still remember how it made me feel. And as happy as I am now with you, my mind still replays all these memories and I remember how good it felt and I’m scared.”  
  
John wrapped his arms tightly around Sherlock, locking him in place to convince himself that Sherlock was still there. “I wish you’d told me.”  
  
“What’s to tell? No matter how long someone’s been clean the temptation is always there; the urge, the need to feel that way again. It doesn’t go away. You become stronger and you fight it, but it never truly goes away.”  
  
“You’re stronger than you know, Sherlock. Look how long you’ve been clean. Look at all the things that happen around us, all these triggers, all these stressors and you’ve kept your sobriety. And I’m so proud of you for that.”  
  
Sherlock thought back to all the times he’d relapsed in the past; all the times Mycroft and Lestrade had pulled him back from the edge, all the times he’d nearly died. He wouldn’t let John go through that. Not ever. “It’s hard,” Sherlock admitted, “but I want to be in control of my own mind. I don’t want to be dependent on anything just to get through the day. I want to chase criminals and solve crimes and spend the rest of my life with you.”  
  
John smiled down at his partner. “That’s a pretty big commitment.”  
  
“Well, you don’t have anything better to do, do you?”  
  
“Let me think about that for a second.” John leaned down and pressed his lips against Sherlock’s. He closed his eyes, revelling in the sensation, the warmth, the love. “Nope, definitely nothing better to do.”  
  
“Good.” Sherlock sat up, chest to chest with John and brought his hands up to John’s face. He started stroking his cheek with the back of his fingers before kissing him, and soon felt John’s hands holding on to him tightly. Their kiss deepened, and their hands started wandering; John’s were now grabbing Sherlock’s shirt, bringing the two even closer together. Sherlock suddenly disengaged himself from John so that he could move. Before John could protest he had the detective on his lap, legs on either side of him, and they were kissing again.  
  
“I love you, Sherlock,” John declared between kisses. “I love you so much.”  
  
Their kisses lingered, no longer frenzied or rushing, simply enjoying the feel of one another. Sherlock laid his head down on John’s shoulder, his hands wrapped around the doctor’s waist. John started stroking Sherlock’s hair again and placing soft kisses every so often.  
  
As relaxed as they seemed, Sherlock knew that there was something still bothering John. He was too tense and too stiff. Sherlock looked up to see a frown on his face.  
  
“What are you thinking about?” Sherlock asked.  
  
John shook his head before replying. “Nothing- wasn’t thinking of anything.”  
  
Sherlock raised his eyebrows questioningly at him. “You’re the one who wanted to talk… so talk.”  
  
“I…” John sighed in resignation, “I was just wondering how you first got involved in all this. I mean, you’re brilliant, Sherlock. You’re absolutely brilliant, so why did you start doing this to yourself?”  
  
That was the question that Sherlock had been dreading. Everyone who knew always asked, sometimes just out of curiosity, sometimes out of cruelty, but most of the times out of concern. They wanted to know why someone would do this to themselves, why they would put their bodies through this just because of their minds. It was a question that Sherlock was asked so often that he’d perfected an answer over the years.  
  
But he didn’t want to give John that perfected half-truth. He wanted to be honest with him, as painful as it was. Because John deserved to know the truth. He cleared his throat before going down this ugly road in his mind. “As you can imagine, school was rather difficult for me, especially high school. People alienate and insult me now, but can you imagine what teenagers were like?”  
  
“No, and I wish you’d never known,” John replied sadly.  
  
“They were cruel, John. Cruel and angry and violent and I didn’t know how to defend myself, from their insults or their fists. I was too strange and abnormal and not enough like the other kids. My parents tried their best to support me but there was nothing they could do. Those kids were never going to stop. Bullying me made them feel better about themselves; they felt strong and powerful and most of all normal compared to me. There was nothing anyone could do, least of all me.”  
  
“Did they know?”  
  
“I think they suspected it, but I never told anyone. I knew it would be pointless and I didn’t want to upset Mummy. Looking back now I realise that shutting myself off in my room and not wanting to talk to anyone probably worried and upset her just as much as the truth would have. But I couldn’t think rationally at the time.”  
  
His head was always so full; knowledge, experiments, languages, insults, people, places, memories and thoughts all trapped in a single place. Everything was difficult to sort through and the insults ended up being at the forefront of his mind, which was when he decided to develop his mind palace. It helped, in a way, to control some of the thoughts he wanted to keep away and he started learning how to organise everything and delete what wasn’t important. But there were memories you could never get rid of.  
  
“How old were you?”  
  
“I was 16 when I first started. I was just about to finish high school and was trying to decide what course to pursue at college. I’d had a particularly bad day at school, so I left halfway through the day and went for a walk. I wound up in a back street when a man offered me something. Desperate as I was at the time I took it, and as you can imagine I went back for more. After that every little bad thing that happened seemed bad enough that I needed the drugs to get through it.”  
  
John had gone quiet and still, locking onto Sherlock’s every word. It was hard to listen to everything Sherlock had been through. He just wanted to hold him close and tell him how much he loved him and that everything was going to be okay. But he didn’t want to interrupt Sherlock.  
  
“Mycroft wasn’t there at the time and I hid it well enough from my parents that they didn’t notice, so there was no one to stop me. Until one day Mycroft found me high in my room. I was surprised when he didn’t tell our parents. It was only later that I realised that maybe he knew what it was like, to have a mind that never stops, thoughts that you can’t always control. He took me to his house and tried to help me, but he realised soon enough that it wouldn’t be enough, so he took me to a clinic.”  
  
And that had been the worst part. His brother couldn’t help him, at a time when he couldn’t and didn’t want to help himself. Mycroft had despaired, worried that his brother would end up killing himself- and he had come close enough, even under Mycroft’s supervision. That’s when he’d decided that enough was enough. He finally admitted to Sherlock and to himself that he just wasn’t strong enough to help him through it. But he knew that Sherlock desperately needed help.  
  
“Did the clinic help you?” John asked.  
  
“I suppose, in a way. It cleaned me up, but it didn’t take the cravings away. A few years later, university wasn’t any easier. But it did feel liberating to be away from home.”  
  
“I’m just glad you made it out alive. And I’m glad we met and that you’re here with me.”  
  
John wrapped Sherlock in a tight embrace, and Sherlock felt himself returning the pressure and burying his head in John’s chest. He’d remained fairly collected throughout the whole recall, but these were difficult memories to talk about.  
  
He kept replaying things in his mind, remembering disappointed faces and headshakes, tears spilled from red rimmed eyes, but he couldn’t remember if they were his own or someone else’s. Everything was suddenly crashing down around him and he couldn’t control his mind or his body and so he clutched to the one thing that made sense right now. John. John always made sense and he was always there when Sherlock needed him.  
  
John felt Sherlock’s breath accelerate against his chest. Worried, he pulled the detective away slightly only to have him hold on to him tighter than before, unwilling to let go. “I’m right here, Sherlock. You’re okay.”  
  
A few seconds later John heard sniffles coming from the detective and he simply held him. “Everything’s going to be okay.”  
  
He started laying kisses on the detective’s temple and whispering to him. “Just let it all out. I’m right here. I’m right here, Sherlock.”  
  
And so they sat there, clutching at one another, unwilling and unable to let go.  
  
  
After Sherlock had calmed down they moved to the quiet of their room, John falling asleep not long after getting in bed. But Sherlock was still awake, turning memories over in his head.  
  
He hated giving in to emotions, especially when fuelled by the past; there was no point in dwelling after all. Whatever happened, happened, and it shouldn’t affect him so much now. But the fact that he’d never opened up about his past had worked against him and everything had built up to the point where he had to stop.  
  
Recalling these memories now, when he could think clearly, he realised how much he had hurt those around him. His parents had both suffered, once they found out about his drug use. And Lestrade had also been dragged into the whole mess not long after first meeting Sherlock. But Mycroft had gone through the most at Sherlock’s hand. He’d seen the very worst of Sherlock in those years, and that had driven a wedge between them because of the responsibility he had placed on his brother’s shoulders. It was a habit that stuck around for years and years- a habit that was still around- and only served to remind Sherlock of why Mycroft had acquired it in the first place.  
  
In the midst of all the memories Sherlock started feeling a dull ache in his head. The nicotine withdrawal was slowly but surely rearing its ugly head and there was no stopping it.  
  
Sherlock brought his fingers up to his temples, rubbing slightly and hoping that it might serve to lessen the pain. When that didn’t work he turned on his side and fluffed up his pillow, hoping to get into a more comfortable position that would allow him some peace.  
  
The movement woke John up, who slowly opened his eyes and blinked down at Sherlock. When he saw the tightness between his eyebrows and the way he shut his eyes tightly and was curling his fists around the pillow he started worrying. “Sherlock, what’s wrong?”  
  
“My head hurts,” Sherlock whispered.  
  
John started rubbing his hand up and down Sherlock’s back. “I have to get up to get something but I’ll be right back.”  
  
Exhausted and in pain, Sherlock stayed right where he was until John came back and placed something on his forehead. He instantly felt the cold lessen the raging pain inside his head.  
  
“Oh,” he breathed, “that feels really nice.”  
  
John sat on the bed by Sherlock’s hip, running his hands up and down Sherlock’s face lightly. “Keep it there, it should help a little.”  
  
Minutes passed in silence while Sherlock held the ice pack to his forehead and tried to concentrate on the wonderful effect it was having on the pain. He’d almost drifted off when he heard John’s voice break the comfortable silence they had been in.  
  
“I wish I could have been there for you,” John said sadly.  
  
“I don’t,” Sherlock replied.  
  
“What?”  
  
Sherlock turned slightly and opened his eyes to look up at John. He could see the worry and insecurity in them. “We wouldn’t be here otherwise.”  
  
“You don’t know that.”  
  
One small change, just one, could be enough to rip apart his life as it was. He and John may never have become what they were now. They may not even have met. The thought was unfathomable. “I wouldn’t risk us, not for anything.”  
  
John smiled down at him. It wasn’t often he heard things like this from Sherlock, but when he did they always brought a swell of happiness with them. He knew Sherlock loved him, of course, but hearing Sherlock sounding so certain of what they had made a comforting warmth wash over him.  
  
He saw Sherlock slip his eyes shut once again, clearly tired and in pain, and grabbed the fallen ice pack. “Is this helping?”  
  
“Yes,” Sherlock confirmed.  
  
John placed the ice pack on the back of Sherlock’s neck this time and held it in place, hoping that the detective would be able to get some sleep. “Try and get some rest, it’ll make you feel better.”  
  
“I’m not tired,” Sherlock mumbled, almost half-asleep.  
  
John chuckled. “Sure you’re not.”  
  
In less than five minutes Sherlock was asleep.


	4. Chapter 4

When Sherlock woke up the next morning he was surprised at how well rested he felt. He got up slowly, trying not to disturb John, and stretched his arms over his head. He made his way to the kitchen, and as always put the kettle on and pulled out a couple of mugs from the cupboard. He doubted John would stay asleep for much longer and he would appreciate a nice cup of tea when he woke up.

While he waited for the kettle to boil he prepared the mugs and put some bread in the toaster. He was surprisingly hungry today and decided to actually make breakfast for once- a task he usually left for John to do.

As if on cue Sherlock heard shuffling from the bedroom. He quickly finished making the tea and carried the two mugs into the room. He set the mugs down and sat on the edge of the bed just as John opened his eyes.

Before John had even said anything, Sherlock leaned over and kissed him right on the lips. After a second of hesitation where John’s brain finally made sense of what was going on he kissed back, settling his hands on Sherlock’s hips while the detective braced himself on the mattress.

They continued kissing, growing frenzied and shifting until John was sitting up and Sherlock was on his lap. Sherlock’s hands moved and were now cupping John’s face, deepening the kiss until eventually they broke apart for need of oxygen.

John’s head collapsed back on the bed and Sherlock lay his head down on his partner’s shoulders. “Good morning to you too, Sherlock.”

“I made breakfast,” Sherlock mumbled into his shoulder.

“You did?” John asked incredulous.

“Almost,” Sherlock replied, as he got up from the bed and walked into the kitchen.

After Sherlock’s unexpected wakeup call John was feeling rather alert. He took a sip off his tea and joined Sherlock in the kitchen. “Do you need any help?”

“I think I can manage some toast, John.”

“I know you can, I just thought I might help.”

Sherlock was opening and closing cupboards, clearly looking for something he didn’t know the location of. John considering asking what he was looking for but Sherlock seemed determined to find it himself. After looking in a few more cupboards Sherlock finally located the jam and prepared some toast for both of them.

They sat on the sofa enjoying finally spending a morning together, just relaxing.

“Have you got any plans for today then?” John asked.

“I have several experiments that require my attention,” Sherlock replied. He was glad for this because there didn’t seem to be any cases on the horizon and he desperately needed a distraction. The cravings hadn’t been too bad, yet, but he knew how they could get. And John wouldn’t be here to distract him today.

John seemed to be thinking along the same lines. “You’ll be alright then?”

Sherlock held back the urge to roll his eyes. “I’ll be fine, John,” he replied rather sternly.

When Sherlock’s gaze settled on him he noted how John looked slightly guilty. He knew he must feel bad for patronising Sherlock, but he was just worried.

After finishing his breakfast John got up to have a shower and get ready for work. In the meantime Sherlock had gone over to the kitchen table and started working on one of his many experiments. He barely noticed John walking around the house as he got ready until the doctor was standing behind him with his arms wrapped tightly around Sherlock’s middle.

“You’ve been doing really well,” John said, “just keep that in mind, alright?” He punctuated his words with a reassuring squeeze and a kiss and Sherlock nodded in acknowledgement of his words. He didn’t like failing. He liked failing John even less, so he was going to work hard to fight his urges.

He concentrated on his experiments once again, keeping his mind occupied and the urges at bay. Hours passed as he sat, taking down notes and observing. He didn’t even hear his phone go off with texts from John, didn’t even notice Mrs Hudson as she peaked her head in the flat.

After three hours Sherlock seemed to finally snap out of his trance. His experiment was finished- for the time being anyway- and he didn’t seem to have the energy to check on any of his others. None of them needed urgent attention anyway.

With his mind unoccupied the sudden urge to smoke seemed to hit him. Without even thinking he walked over to the mantle where the skull was and looked for the packet of cigarettes he knew John always kept there.

It was only after a few seconds that he seemed to remember that John had thrown the packet away. That didn’t stop him from spending the next hour desperately searching the flat. He overturned everything; papers, books, pillows, furniture, bedclothes, drawers, but he couldn’t find anything. He didn’t really think that John had kept any in the flat, but his mind wouldn’t rest until he’d checked every possible location.

Even after that he was still frenzied. His fingers kept twitching and he was pacing up and down the flat trying to tell his mind to quieten down, trying to get his fingers to stop, trying to tell himself that he did not need to smoke. He’d kicked worse habits before, successfully, he was not about to be beaten by this.

But then he thought back to all the times he’d relapsed and his heart sunk a little. If it’s happened with the drugs, it could happen with this, and what would John think? He’d be disappointed and angry that Sherlock couldn’t just _not_ smoke.

He shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts. _Stop it. John’s not going to be disappointed because you’re not going to smoke._

It was only then that he thought to check his phone where he found four texts from John.

**Is everything alright? JW**

**I take it you’re still working on your experiments. JW**

**What do you want for dinner? JW**

**When you see these say something, I’m getting worried JW**

Sherlock tried to get his hands to stop shaking so that he could type out a reply. After a whole minute of struggling he was finally happy with his message.

**I’m fine. Busy working and didn’t hear my phone. Stop worrying and pick up some Chinese on your way home. SH**

He thought he’d settled down at his desk reading the paper after sending the text but the next thing he knew he was sitting in John’s old bedroom. He wasn’t entirely sure how he got there but a couple of minutes in his mind palace and he finally realised that he’d been once again searching the flat, no doubt figuring that if John had hidden the cigarettes anywhere it would be in the one unoccupied room they had. He reminded himself once again that he didn’t need to smoke.

“Sherlock?” he heard John shouting from downstairs.

He got up and quickly made his way to the door. John, having heard the creaking door from upstairs open, walked over to the door of their flat, confusion written on his face. “What were you doing up there?”

“Nothing,” Sherlock tried dismissing casually.

He could tell that John knew but was glad when he didn’t call him out on it and simply accepted the fact that they weren’t talking about it right now.

When they were both back downstairs, Sherlock bent over his microscope again and John sat in his chair reading a book, Sherlock gathered up the courage to make a request.

“John, are you working tomorrow?”

Maybe not a request, but he knew John would understand. “No, I’m staying right here with you.” 

Sherlock uttered a quiet ‘thank you’, grateful to have someone who understood him as well as John did.

 

The next day John woke up to the sound of retching. He blearily opened his eyes and went to the bathroom where he found Sherlock leaning over the toilet bowl looking tired and miserable. John sighed sadly and grabbed a towel from the cupboard, running it over the cold tap. He spent the next hour wiping the sweat off Sherlock’s forehead and trying to get small sips of water into the man.

When Sherlock’s body finally seemed to accept that he had nothing left to bring up he helped the detective get back into bed. Sherlock was asleep in no time, having exhausted himself enough for the day.

John slipped quietly out of the room and into the living room. He sat down heavily in his chair, thinking about the past couple of days. He couldn’t help but remember all the times he’d tried to help Harry, unsuccessfully, to stop drinking. He knew the case wasn’t the same here; it was obvious that Sherlock wanted to stop smoking, and he’d kicked worse habits before, but he couldn’t help but think about the similarities.

He felt a pang in his chest whenever he thought about his sister. He hated being cut off from her, but he’d reached out time and time again to no avail. At the end of the day, he couldn’t force her to do anything she didn’t want to.

Luckily he hadn’t had the same problem with Sherlock, at least this time around. John may have seen many people detoxing from a lot of things over the years, but he couldn’t imagine what it had been like when Sherlock was detoxing from drugs. Sherlock had never talked about it and Lestrade had only alluded to how bad it had been to see the great detective in that state.

He shook his head to clear those thoughts, knowing that nothing good would come from them, and went to check on Sherlock. The detective was sleeping soundly in bed and had barely moved since John had laid him on his side almost an hour ago. He seemed settled, and John was glad for it. He was convinced Sherlock had now gotten over the worse of the withdrawal and would be back to pacing around the flat flapping his dressing gown dramatically in no time.

It came as no surprise then, that the next three days were the worse for both Sherlock and John. The detective was constantly restless, ranting and raving around the flat about how much he needed his cigarettes. He was convinced John had hidden them somewhere and refused to believe he had willingly let John throw them away.

As if that wasn’t enough, Sherlock’s body decided that now would be the time to show him how right he was about needing the nicotine. Sweat poured off Sherlock in buckets, and he spent much of his mornings leaning over the toilet bowl and his afternoons sleeping off the exhaustion on the sofa. When he’d finally wake up they went through the usual motions. John made dinner which Sherlock didn’t eat. He left out glasses of water and cups of tea which Sherlock only sipped. All of this would come back to haunt the detective the next day when he would undoubtedly be retching up bile and nothing else.

After three days, it all blessedly stopped.

Sherlock was beyond exhausted. Only now had he realised the extent to which he had let his habit get this time around. But having been through the last few days, he was certain he’d never let it get to that point again. He knew how much John had put up with during this time, and he was ashamed of some of the things he had said to him. John had forgiven him, of course, asserting that Sherlock couldn’t be blamed for the things he said.

But that didn’t change the fact that Sherlock wanted to do better this time. He wanted to stay away from the nicotine as well as he’d stayed away from the drugs. He wanted to be clean and his mind to be sharp and his body to not depend on anything but food and water like everyone else, even if that annoyed him to no end. He knew he could do this. He was going to do it. Having John by his side was added motivation, but he would do this for himself.

 

Sherlock woke up this morning feeling calm. For once, he hadn’t been woken up by the urge to empty his stomach or by the painful cramps, but instead felt well rested and ready to face the day. He laid in bed for a few minutes, enjoying the peace his body was finally allowing him to have.

The last few days had been exhausting, for him and for John, but it seemed like the worst of it was finally over. He would have to make sure that he stored the memories of these days in his mind palace, to remind himself of what happened when he let his urges overpower his self-control. But he was truly determined not to do it again.

He would stay clean this time. He would not put himself through another withdrawal.

Sherlock took a deep breath and finally got up. He walked into the kitchen to find a steaming mug of tea on the counter along with a note from John. He must have just missed him.

Sherlock picked up the note and read it.

_Going into work today, I’ll bring dinner tonight. Be good. JW_

“I will, John,” he uttered into the quiet room, “I will.”


End file.
